


Pleasurable Torture

by Severe_Campaign



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Boot Worship, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, Public Humiliation, Submission, Subspace, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 18:24:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9561356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severe_Campaign/pseuds/Severe_Campaign
Summary: Percival Graves, come on down.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:
> 
> Percival might be one of the most powerful and influental wizards in the US, but he still serves the one and only president Picquery. And when he fucks up, he's publicly chastised - in the MACUSA grand meeting hall, all the members present, Picquery sitting on her throne like a queen, one foot out, Percival kneeling before her and licking her perfect high-heeled shoe to a mirror shine.
> 
> In the end he comes from doing that. Picquery pets his hair, calls him her good boy and tells him he's forgiven.
> 
>  
> 
> _(Any gibberish stylistically intentional. Please drop a comment if any enjoyment is gained from my nonsense.)_

He worries about it for most of the afternoon, fidgets and clock-watches and reads the same report three times just in an attempt to understand it, thinking, fuck, fuck. When it's only three minutes to 3PM a choking panic seizes his throat and he thinks for a minute (a wasted minute, it is now _two_ minutes to 3PM) of just running away. He will take off down the back staircase and Apparate to his house. Fake a sickness. No, he'll hide in that enormous cabinet in Auror Lewis's office and make a new life there. He'll...

"Director Graves? Madam President will see you now. Please, come with me."

A cool, rushing calm steals over him. It starts at the back of his head and pools down his neck, his shoulders, down into every limb. Numbed from their previous tremors, his hands spread and still on the desk.

He stares straight ahead.

"Of course."

He feels his body stand and straighten, turn, watches it manouevre to the door and follow the young woman out into the corridor.

" _Afdjrdogh_?" she asks him as they start walking, as _she_ starts walking and he's borne along behind her like a No-Maj child's balloon. " _Salfjjwod hu_?"

"Yes," he agrees absently through the cool rushing in his head. There are a lot of people congesting this corridor, rushing to other rooms, laden with papers and boxes.

All of them turning to look. Looking at him gliding past, knowledge reflecting in their eyes and sympathy or even satisfaction twisting their mouths.

They know.

They all know.

He concentrates on moving his elastic legs down a strip of space which is ever-lengthening.

They turn left. Right.

Four stairs down and round, another darker corridor now, past and past, through and on.

A hand suddenly squeezes his arm, and he blinks...stops. This is a door. This is a door which reads PENTAGRAM OFFICE and it's 3.01 PM.

" _Dfknr biplkyj_!" the girl tells him encouragingly with a slight pressure on his shoulder, because he's standing looking at the door and can't move.

PENTAGRAM OFFICE.

PENTAGRAM OFFICE.

PENTAGRAM OFFICE.

So she leans forward, past his shoulder and _pushes_ the door, (et tu, Brutus) starts to wedge it open with one hand, and the sight from within of solemn faces craning out galvanises him and he catches the door with one flat hand before it can swing shut in his face.

He walks into the gloom, and whispering.

From every corner he feels them, watching, as he walks slowly into the room. The International Confederation, gathered here for his debasement.

A many-headed monster. Collective memory.

He feels his shoulders sag under the scrutiny as he walks, walks, follows the beam of light to the star that sits in the perfect middle of the tile floor, the star with the chair where he will sit and be debased.

He cannot bring himself to look at her until there's something solid supporting him.

He sags into the chair as if drunk, arms dangling on the rests, knees spreading, and finally, finally looks up.

The President.

Madam President sits on her throne under the great harsh light from above, highlighted just as deliberately as he is on his little star. She's swathed in some midnight dress with constellations embroidered across the bodice, golden wrap crowning her proud head.

She stares down at him with bloodless authority.

The crimson carpet pools beneath her throne because, in this cavernous mouth, she is the tongue.

He swallows.

"Director Graves. I assume you know why you have been called here today?"

"Yes," he confides to the room. "Yes."

"Good."

She addresses the Confederation first with some lengthy opening remarks, toying with him. And then she starts in.

It's like being on a broomstick, he thinks, so he always thinks, as he slumps in the chair watching her lips move. It's nothing else but rushing in his head and snatches of sound careening past.

_reckless - endanger - accordance with - foolish - the reports which - inconclusive -_

_\- disobedient -_

Disobedient.

**Disobedient.**

He spreads his legs a little further in the chair. Stares into her eyes. So disobedient, look how incredibly fucking disobedient he is.

Her eyes darken on him, around him, and his breathing speeds up in the realisation that Madam President has nearly finished the tonguework and is readying to swallow him whole.

"This organisation, Director Graves, must work as _one_. All parts, working together to form a greater whole. A body, if you will. Would you agree?"

"Yes."

Her scarlet lips twist.

"If the Confederation forms the body, then your singular function in the role of Director is to be the _wand_ at the end of the Confederation's _hand_. _You_ are our will made action, Director Graves. You are our tool. You are our _weapon._ Correct?"

"Yes," he pleads, "yes I am, yes."

"A weapon is to be used. And you have promised this to us, have you not? Promised to submit yourself for use? Promised to serve us?"

"Yes."

"Promised to obey?"

"Yes."

"Then you recognise, Director, that you are not the law. You _enforce_ the law."

"Y-yes."

"You do not question us. You obey us without question."

"Yes. I - _yes_."

"You perform your function correctly, _obediently_ and above all with the _humbleness_ that your role as a public _servant_ dictates, or you will soon find that you cease to have any function here at all. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Nnngh.Yes..."

His nails dig hard into the chair and she leans forward like some gloating cat tormenting a particularly fat rodent and purrs down at him, "Since you seem so...agreeable today, you presumably take no issue with the fact that your _shameless_ behaviour warrants some form of _punishment_...and punished you shall be, Director...once we have all agreed on the most appropriate method, that is.

_Do you agree today before the Confederation that you deserve to be punished?"_

He opens his mouth, face burning, wanting to agree, to tell her, tell all of them, tell them that he's never wanted anything so much in his damn _life_ , tell her that his cock's so hard it's killing him, that he's leaking in his pants from the very fucking _promise_ of what she is doing but even a _yes_ won't come out so he just folds his lips on themselves and nods his head as emphatically as a puppet.

"Do you have any remarks you'd like to make at this point or anything you'd like to be noted?"

The sarcasm chokes him.

He can't say _no_ , not in this room, to her, so he just gazes up at her desperately and then drops his gaze to the floor.

"Very well, Director."

He couldn't make a remark right now if she fucking sentenced him to death.

She tells someone, some recording scribe of the thousand-headed monster that Director Graves has _no_ remarks (none, never again) and then she says, oh Mercy fuck, she says:

"You may approach and express your gratitude for the Confederation's mercy in the appropriate manner."

Oh no.

Oh fuck fuck fuck.

He's a big puddle, gaping at her.

Her eyes narrow to slits.

"You may _approach_ , Director."

 _I can't_ , he mouths at her, like it'll do anything, and she raises an eyebrow at him, Madam President's version of a shark's grin.

Her hand drifts down to her skirts, gathers a handful and starts pulling them up the length of her right leg, exposing one long, smooth coffee-shaded shin. One long smooth shin encased in a diamond-patterned stocking and finished in a black leather ankle boot.

Tight at the ankle, pointed at the toe. Tipped with a cruel spiked heel.

She extends the leg fully, pointing her foot like a dancer's, and then crosses it over the other leg, propping her boot up in invitation.

_The appropriate manner._

Fuck.

Licking his dry lips, he clamps onto the chair-rests. Somehow (all the strength has left his limbs and drained directly into his dick) somehow he staggers to his feet, leaning on the sides of the chair.

When did everyone stop whispering?

How is a room filled with so many so breathlessly silent?

He hears his heart.

He, this is him, Director Graves, he is doing this now, he takes one unsteady step then another, another, approaches her great throne in small measures, and the numbing serenity of earlier is all gone, drained out. Now there's nothing but tension and arousal and...something else. Something beneath the burn of humiliation.

He reaches the set of stairs and, wincing at the demands it makes of his overstimulated crotch, climbs ponderously up, looking at her, looking at her and that raised eyebrow, the Sphinx that she surely is.

He can smell her now. A cool garden scent.

The things his mother grew outside and he never knew the names of.

And now, oh, the tip of her upraised boot is knocking against his leg.

_I can't don't make me do this I can't I swear I can't_

They look at each other, he looks at her and she looks at him, with no more expression now than she wore from all the way across the room. Nothing but a restrained and controlling sense of satisfaction. The ghost of a smile.

Her hand raises from her lap in a fist and the index finger escapes. It hovers over her lap and then performs a little downwards jabbing motion.

_Bow._

_Bow, Director, and kiss my boot._

_Show the monsters here what you are._

 _Show them your...obedience._

Yes. Yes. He will.

Unable to drag his eyes from hers now, he lets himself bend in one slow, smooth movement over her extended foot, reaching blindly until her shoe (solid weight, warm at the ankle) is grasped in his two hands. Stares as he holds her, and for a moment it seems like something deeper flickers in her eyes, some fierce flicker of angered lust and _possessiveness_ , but then she blinks and it's all gone.

He bends, holding her eyes, saliva gathering in his mouth, bends, bends.

Her shoe brushes against his lips.

He kisses it like she is life itself.

She is life itself.

He moves, peels his lips away from the smoothness and kisses another place, pleading with his eyes, her leather and body heat swirling around him, her greenish scent, and her eyes narrow in consideration, and he knows what she wants.

His tongue comes out of his mouth and he gently angles her foot so she can watch him as he presses it to the smooth arch of her boot and drags it in one slow lick up the side...soaking the leather to some shade darker than black with his pink, pink tongue.

Her nostrils flare.

He repeats the motion, burns at her with his eyes while chasing the warm leather with the tip of his tongue, tasting it. Her leather and salt filling his mouth, chasing away her greater scent.

His hands squeeze on her foot in spasms.

Laps, he laps in long, slow stripes up and down the body-heated leather that houses her foot, the twists and designs of her shoe scraping against the sodden softness of his tongue.

Indenting his taste buds like a brand.

She eases slowly back against her throne, watching him, coldly captivated, and he doesn't stop until everywhere is shining with his spit, til she's polished new and wet, sticky against his hands.

Drops his head down to bite gently at the spike of her heel. Tug it with his teeth.

And then, and then, oh fuck, but he'll do it, he _has_ to do it, there's no question now that he'll do it and she nods with pursed lips like she knows, anticipates him exactly - tilts her sole - and his eyes fall shut and he whines because he cannot look at her for this part, he can't-can't-can't.

Blindly he finds the sole of her boot, first finds the underneath with his thumbs and then greets it with his tongue. Spreads his tongue on the flat of the sole and drags it slowly up, up, licks the filth off the bottom of her fucking shoe like he has no other function on earth. Dust invading his mouth like bitterness, shuddering, shuddering, licking in abject acceptance of her.

Her leg jolts in his grip like she's sagged into the chair.

He can't stop, he does it again, and again, heat pulsing through him, tonguing the corruption from the foot of the Confederation, wide adoring licks that daze and blur him, unable now to do anything but this.

Her foot gently twists in his grip.

His head lifts. Panting, he waits. Caught.

She spits at him, " _Finish it_."

Finish it.

Flushing, he nods, and again stares helplessly into Seraphina Picquery's slitted brown eyes while opening his mouth and just...swallowing up the sharp toe of her boot, spreading his lips around the wedge in his mouth. Dust explodes on his tongue again and he squeezes her leg and sucks down on the tip of her boot like it's a - like he's a - _fuck_ , and she fills his mouth while he sucks and fucking sucks and her lips peel back from her teeth in triumph, gloating at his depravity and a sob tears from his throat and that's it he just comes.

He comes straight into his fucking pants. 

*******

" _Phggjkgf?_ "

Noise. What. He shrinks from it.

Something warm against him. He butts it with his head, seeking a way in.

"Percival?"

"Mmf."

"My Percival."

Something whispers over his head and his hair feels less tight, sparks smoothing, and then slim fingers wind in his hair. Start a good, slow scratch.

A contented little moan flows out of him.

"They're gone, Percival."

They?

The fingers slow so he whines a little to make them move again. Another hand joins the first, scratching, rubbing his temples...so nice.

"What a good boy you are. So perfect like this. What a good, dutiful, _splendid_ boy."

He whines again. _Don't stop_ in code.

One of the scratching hands pauses, there's a crinkling noise and something pushes at his mouth, and he opens trustingly to the whatever and learns that it's some kind of candy. It floods away the bitterness in his mouth.

"You are _mine_ , Percival," she tells him, as coldly as she tells him anything. "And I will never, ever let you go. I'd find myself incapable of it, now."

Huh.

Finding your self. Like beach stones. To collect, to carry. To keep.

He smiles faintly at the thought as he drifts against her legs.

_They came from the sea, Madam President._

_You're supposed to throw them back._

\---------------------


End file.
